The Tree
If I should dream
In this first soft sleep of night,
Let me, O Night, dream of one humble, tossing tree.
A simple thing of rugged form and charm
That lives alone above a murmuring sea.
Yea, in the light’s end
I see it clearly now.
Bending down low before a bitter blast,
That, day and night, sourly sweeps across its face.
How then has it grown through stormy wrack and rain
To become in time this supple thing of grace.
Ah, man! before
This dream shall creep away,
May I ask the question here arisen?
Could you, with all your turgid science and pride,
Grow to the pure height that this tree has grown
If tossed by ceaseless winds on Life’s rough tide?
Max Dupain (Year 6B) |
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Wings of wind c.1930,bromoil photograph
Collection Art Gallery of South Australia |
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